


beyond the wall

by caesarions



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ancient China, Ancient Rome, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Civil War, Developing Relationship, Emotional Constipation, Lullabies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarions/pseuds/caesarions
Summary: Though Rome is well-versed in the world of nightmares, no nation has shared his bed for one. At least, none that he can trust. China comforts Rome after a spell and assures him that tragedy is no shameful, foreign concept. In fact, it could look the exact same on the opposite end of the world.takes place duringài de lǐwù, but it can be read alone.





	beyond the wall

**Author's Note:**

> this plot was on my mind. it was originally just a cute little thing to do in an rp, but i wanted to rewrite it to explore the deeper connotations it holds for nations and how they can possibly ever find happiness, among other nation quirks. no historical notes this time since it's pretty self-explanatory and secondary to that theme. anyway, please enjoy! 
> 
> NAMES:
> 
> china - wang min (clever king)
> 
> rome - lucius marius priscus romulus (shining; of mars or masculine; ancient; the mythical founder, 'mr. rome')
> 
> etruria - aranth repesuna (prince, lost to history)
> 
> ancient greece - helen (shining bright)

When Romulus received word that Sulla marched on Rome, his stomach dropped. When Marius vowed to meet Sulla in battle, Romulus dropped to his knees.

It was no secret that Romulus preferred Marius. The wizened, old general treated him as cousin and confidant because of their shared _nomen_. Shared politics similarly bound the pair, as Marius opened his arms to the common man, allowing landless citizens to join the army. Now, he had taken it a step further, offering freedom to any slave that would fight Sulla. Romulus had been among the Marians to arm the motley crew of gladiators.

Freedom’s cost was a sure death at the hands of their own countrymen.

Which commander Romulus was angrier at, he knew not. The misplaced ire burned within his lungs, white hot enough to corrode his armor. His throat closed shut and pushed the tears out of him, running in furious streaks.

No Roman before the younger and bolder Sulla had ever entertained crossing the _pomerium_ , the City’s sacred limits, with an army. Senators stood around and wondered if he only jested, in the morbid way that only a Roman could. Romulus would give his life for it to be so.

He would in this battle, anyway.

Romulus could find neither Marius nor Sulla on the field—the City!—not that either of them would entertain their representative now. They were bound and determined to tear him in half.

Tears throttled his vision until he stumbled blindly into the thick of it. He heard little beyond the cacophony of screams of Roman against Roman and dueling blades. One voice was particularly close, breathing fire on Romulus’ neck. A legionary appeared from somewhere, as if freed from the underworld, and rammed his shield into Romulus’ face—a calculated blow, the tip slicing just below his eye and catching the bridge of his nose.

The sickening crack was as familiar as a mother’s lullaby is to a babe. Happening hundreds of times already, his nose had healed as gnarled as the roots of an ancient tree. Nation immortality was no match for a Roman veteran.

Biting his tongue added to the hard iron flooding Romulus’ senses. When he tried to plead—with either the man or the gods—he choked on the deadly mix of fluids. The other had freed his sword while Romulus’ face was drenched in sanguine, so the representative had no choice but to raise his shield in a more calculated blow to the legionary’s temple.

The orchestral sweep of shrieking died then, and Romulus closed the eye above his injured cheek as it throbbed. As the middle-aged man crumpled to the ground like a scroll set aflame, the faces of the heroes Romulus had fought alongside with in the Social War years before flashed into his brain. He lied on his side, but it could not be mistaken from slumber as his life’s essence drained into the trampled grass. Romulus swallowed a desert and kicked the poor fellow’s head to face the sky with his army sandal.

Thank Jove, he was not among them.

One would be, eventually. As opposed to Marius’ gladiators, Sulla’s legions constituted entirely of victorious Social War veterans. Still, an indescribable feeling paralyzed Romulus’ spine at the thought of killing one of his own, no matter if he knew them personally. He knew them all, in some kind of astral way. When the nation’s foot connected with the dead man, the image of a wife and child huddled in the corner of their _domus_ crackled in front of Romulus like divine lightning.

Romulus ran.

Eardrums pounding, he made a mad dash across the angrily red field like an unwilling Maenad. They would not clear the hellish stain from Rome for years, perhaps forever. His nose filled with the scent of dirt saturated with death and the stink of regret.

On his crossing, Romulus refused to raise his sword and instead searched the men’s faces. He allowed himself to become a glorified pin cushion. After one superficial slash close to his collarbone, Romulus still found that he could only gargle. He turned and scrambled up the nearest hill on all fours.

His legs only returned to him once he reached the top. When Romulus looked down, he was bathed in sanguine, pieces of the earth stuck to his once immaculate armor. Looking up, even the sun blazed as red as a butcher’s floor. Was it the sunset already, or was it the end of the world?

Romulus wondered if he had been transported to Avernus, the entrance to the underworld. But that could not be correct, because birds flying over that lake were rumored to fall dead. Even now, Romulus spotted an eagle soaring above. At least it had the shape of an eagle, but its wingspan was black as pitch.

It had been said that Marius had discovered an eagle’s nest with seven chicks in it as a youth. Much more than normal, so he felt blessed and decreed the eagle as the symbol of Rome as consul.

The gods’ good omen—if Romulus was not hallucinating the bird—appeared too little too late, as Marius’ freed slaves were already in the middle of a massacre.

There existed a sharp pain in his stomach, like shattered glass being shoved into him, but nothing compared to the jolt of killing a fellow Roman. Still, when Romulus glanced down, a blade jutted from his gut—an unpleasant experience, even for a nigh immortal. The culprit was already running away and down the hill.

It was easier not to see the legionary’s face, because Romulus did not want to resent him for it, was the Roman’s last thought as his knees buckled. The veteran was only serving the good of his people. What that truly meant, Romulus felt confident in until today.

As the contents of his stomach wriggled and escaped between his fingers, Romulus turned to the sky for some last guidance. A burning waterfall of tears fell anew as the eagle’s screech deafened his eardrums. Locked in a freefall directed at the kneeling nation, the shadow of its talons passed over his eyes.

 

Romulus shot up in bed when the lightning followed him, crackling just outside of the window. Hands flew to his stomach to be met with soft, unbroken flesh, although he was as clammy as a corpse. Then, Romulus almost choked himself in his rush to check his neck. Though his fingertips brushed some old scars, his sacred pulse shuddered wildly beneath them like the last cavalry charge.

When Romulus tested his throat, only a pitiful whimper escaped.

The sounds and smells of battle still played in real time, so Romulus’ eyes roved uselessly in the dark. The more he heaved, the more domesticity overtook his senses. Death receded to the dust and peeling paint of his bedroom, the river of blood to the storm outside dumping its feelings into the rainwater pool in the atrium.

Setting his hand on the bed, an entirely new feeling shocked him—a silken tangle of hair.

“Mm?”

The nation nearly jumped out of his skin as reality battled for dominance in the larger part of his brain. It was the beginning of the Empire, not the end of the Republic, his mind said, though his body took no heed. China had come to visit him for the first time. China had—

Oh, the gods _were_ cruel.

Romulus picked up his hand too little too late, as he could not deny himself the little pleasure of running his fingers through the tresses. As Min rolled over to face him, his porcelain fingers caught the last three of Romulus’. When lightning flashed, Romulus saw himself shaking hard enough to move Min’s hand with him.

“Romulus?”

After subsiding for but a second, his breaths staggered out in dry heaves. Suffering a nightmare was nothing new, but waking from one while someone shared his bed was its own beast—one he could not challenge in the arena. Romulus turned his face away as his heart crashed and burned like an unlucky chariot racer.

“Romulus.” The other’s sleepy grip solidified as Min lifted himself into a sitting position. The bed dipped as Min’s down-soft voice, which not even a long sleep could mar, came closer than ever. “Hey.”

When Min’s breath tickled his cheeks, Romulus found them wet.

He wanted to tell Min that it was nothing, to leave him alone, but his leaden tongue was incapable of producing such lies. He double-checked for a fresh wound on his throat.

Thunder clapped outside. The Roman kept his face turned stubbornly away, eyes boring holes into the _domus_ wall. Min’s hand graced one cheek, and he must have felt the same little stream. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

The dam broke.

Perhaps it was not the reaction Min had expected, but Romulus barreled forward like a losing gladiator’s final charge. He pressed his face to Min’s bare chest as sobs began to rack his frame. Curling into himself caused the vestiges of his pride to wither.

At some point, Min has raised into a kneeling position to better wrap his arms around Romulus. The movement brought equal parts comfort and shame, which only made Romulus cry harder.

If Min were mortal, Romulus would have crushed him by now, squeezing Min like his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. Min must have been whispering sweet nothings, for his lips graced the shell of Romulus’ ear, but Romulus could not hear the words over the storm—both outside and inside. Instead, the lead blocking his mouth melted as he continued to mumble utter gibberish in Latin— _I never wanted_ , _the walls_ , _you can’t_ —

Voice returned to him, Romulus wailed over the rain beating against his house.

These living memories were always worse after, in the horrible realization that he could not control them, even if he had an attack while awake or in public. Visions of the past took up residence in his mind like the catacombs outside of the City, and seemingly provoked at random, the greater force of ghosts took hold. Worse yet, there remained more tombs to occupy.

Still, he tried to rebuild reality, a Herculean task. Romulus’ world shrank to the feeling of Min. Min’s arms about his shaking shoulders, the cool skin of Min’s chest pillowing his head.

Min’s heartbeat, too, blossomed right under Romulus’ tear-stained cheek. Sick to death of his own knocking fearfully at his ribs, Romulus willed their paces to match. Kissing his ear were still Min’s breathy comforts, as steady as the flow of the tide under a silver moon. Romulus begged the gods to match those as well. After what well could have been a century, the erratic inflating of Romulus’ chest ceased.

“...It’s okay,” he finally mumbled, echoing Min, though it was more for himself. The words were warped with tears as the last, jerky sobs escaped him. “It’s fine.”

Instead of accepting his papyrus-thin assurances, Min hushed Romulus. If he was grateful or resentful, Romulus knew not. Were he able, he would have fled the room instead of facing his companion. But Roman _virtus_ was not enough to carry him, as his legs were thin and quivering like reeds on the Nile.

Romulus could not even see the door when he finally peeled himself from Min’s chest. Min’s curtain of hair blocked his view. Even when the lightning flashed again, Romulus only saw the individual strands shining like liquid metal. After finding the strength to sit up straight, Romulus buried his nose in the long, midnight locks. They smelled like the incense and oranges of Min’s home—and like Romulus.

“I’m fine,” Romulus played at self-defense pathetically, voice and expression hollow after spilling his heart. “Just a nightmare.”

“I know.” Min now had one hand buried in Romulus’ curls and the other rubbing the small of his back. His fingertips were gelid and smooth as the silk that legitimized him, leaving permanent paths on Romulus’ skin.

Speaking of silk, Romulus cast a woeful glance to the thin wrap that Min wore to bed, now drenched in snot and tears and wrinkled where Romulus had gripped the fabric until his knuckles blanched. Min said nothing about it. 

Still, a chorus of thunder mocked Romulus. It all caused him to hang his head. “Sorry.”

The Chinese man hushed him for a second time. Then, Min began to sing.

The Roman relaxed for one precious second. Sweet and low like birdsong over the sea, the language was just as distant. It must have been their version of a child’s lullaby, for Romulus lurched forward and found himself in another of his old haunts. His last lullaby, centuries ago—he was but a boy again, hiding at the foot of his brother’s bed as a storm raged outside. Even if Jove angered, Aranth could protect him.

Romulus had honestly believed that.

Aranth had not even protected himself from Romulus.

Hot shame shot up Romulus’ spine. When the rainstorm’s light revealed Romulus curled into a ball in Min’s arms, Romulus wrenched himself free. His lullaby broke off with a discordant note, and Jove’s power faded in slow-motion, also revealing Min’s eyes wide with hurt.

“Just—” Romulus’ throat constricted; embarrassment burned in his ears, the rush of blood causing a heavy drumming. Being held and sung back to sleep—how positively _demeaning_. “Just give me a second.”

Min sat on his heels as he folded his hands in his lap. His eyes roved Romulus’ hunched frame ripe with tension, plain in their desire for an explanation. Instead, Romulus shuffled to the edge of the bed and slumped over his knees as fatigue washed over him like a tidal wave.

The thunder, again.

An unbearable silence stretched on between the two of them, even though Romulus had initiated it. He held his face in his hands, war-torn and callused, and stared between his fingers. When the lightning crackled, Romulus saw the shadows of himself crumpled and tossed aside, his curls every which way. Min’s shadow sat straight and long like a loyal sentinel.

The bed dipped forward before Min moved, so Romulus could have stopped him, but he did not. Min sat beside Romulus and wrapped a gentle hand around his wrist. Romulus must have looked even more pathetic than he felt.

“I’m not a child,” Romulus grumbled, quite like a child.

“I did not think you one.” Though he did not argue, Min’s voice was thin. “I’m only doing what I wish someone would have done for me.”

He lifted his face from the prison of his fingers just a bit. Min pounced immediately and took Romulus’ hand in his own, though Romulus did not look up. Min’s searching eyes freezed his aching back. “...What do you mean?”

“We all have nightmares.” Min used their conjoined hands to tilt Romulus’ chin and force him to look up. “It is a pleasure and privilege to share in them. If a mortal shared my bed, I could hardly explain memories from a bygone era.”

Min chose his words as meticulously as a vile woman chose her poisons. So, it had always confused Romulus as to why he spoke of his own people in terms of mortals and humans. Some resentment bubbled under the surface like forgotten boiling water, but that could not be right.

“Never thought of it like that before,” Romulus admitted with a gulp.

The absolute force of Min had reduced the rain to background noise. Amusement laid on his lips, but he did not turn it into a jest, not this time. “Not that the representatives around me are any better confidants. Some of them are the cause of my nightmares. Battles, barbarian camps, the usual fanfare.”

“Yeah,” the Roman said uselessly. His mind had violently tossed him into the past again, this time to when he wore through his sandals by pacing around a bedroom in Greece and crying to the one woman who cared the least. “Haven’t had the best experience with others.”

“Then, tell me.” The request was soft, barely above a whisper, but Min’s actions were not. He hauled Romulus’ legs up and laid them across his lap. Of course, Romulus’ torso had been forced to face him, and Min used this to bring Romulus’ head to rest on his shoulder. A few strands of hair had not been pushed away and kissed Romulus’ sticky cheeks. “Before I make it all about myself, as I tend to do.”

Even if he was shorter than Min, he was thrice Min’s width. It was a ridiculous pose for a ridiculous situation. The next time that he walked into the Senate, Romulus surmised that they would just _know_ and laugh him back home.

Still, he found himself bringing a hand up to rest over Min’s heart.

“You’re welcome to it,” Romulus huffed. “The historians’ve asked me ‘bout the civil wars enough.”

“Historians are what is wrong with the world. Tell me about you, what you were doing,” Min implored.

Romulus blinked.

As the rain continued to march on and Min played with with his curls, Romulus considered his answer. He had become so used to removing himself from the narrative, since the same man could not be in every Roman history scroll without arousing suspicion with the masses.

One of Min’s fingertips massaged at his temple. He mumbled, “I… almost wish my nightmare included other nations.”

“Ah.” A sound harsher than the end of Min’s lullaby. His hand halted. “Civil war.”

Only the moonlight remained, so perhaps Luna played tricks, but Min’s expression shadowed severe. Painted on Romulus’ wall were the lovers Endymion and Luna.

Romulus gave a minuscule nod.

“Before we started writing each other. In the Republic,” Romulus started, slow and hoarse. He opened and closed his mouth as if the rain outside had any way of quenching his thirst. “There were two generals.”

Min’s hand had found its way into Romulus’ chocolate curls again, combing them and urging him to continue.

“I liked the one more. We shared a— a family name, Marius.” Romulus leaned into the touch as if it were the only one he knew in his life. “Not for that petty reason alone, though.”

Min supported Romulus’ entire weight at this point, so Min’s silvery laugh reached all of the way to touch his aching ribs. “I did not assume so.”

“Both led in the Social War.” Remembering Min’s words, he added, “I was in the Social War. A few years later, they were competing for the same position in another war.”

“So eager, so soon?” Min hummed in amusement.

Color began to return to Romulus’ cheeks. “Against Persians this time, who we like fighting more than other Italians.”

“Well, I think that you just like fighting.”

Romulus was even on the precipice of a smile.

“Sulla received the command, so Marius raised a riot,” Romulus continued. Though mob violence in the Forum was as familiar as a well-loved tunic, this one thundered with the undercurrent of change. “I was locked in my house. I saw little, but I heard it all. I wish that was all that the City went through.”

Sparkling moonlight moved with Min’s brows furrowing in concern. “What happened next?”

“Sulla left.” The Roman melted further into Min’s arms. “He returned with an army.”

“Against his own people,” Min murmured—a certainty, not an inquiry.

“He invaded the City!” When Romulus crossed the _pomerium_ now, centuries later, a terrible creature gnawed at his nerves. A waver returned to his voice. The darkness became murky through a watery sheen. “No one had ever done that before.”

Thin finger rising, Min wiped away the tears before they could even think of falling. “I know,” Min quieted him. “I know. So, you dreamed of that battle?”

“Yeah. Yes. If you could even call it that,” Romulus huffed. “It was one-sided. Marius’ volunteer forces of slaves were scattered within hours. I took as many blows for them as possible.”

“Oh, you would,” Min sighed.

He did smile, now, even as he reached the pinnacle of all of his nightmares. “I died when I was stabbed in the stomach. I didn’t come to until it was all over.” He decided to spare Min the graphic details before that—hardly a grace, since Min had lived longer and experienced worse battles than he and survived unscathed. But Romulus clinged to a small sense of dignity.

Tilting his head, the grin was evident in Min’s voice. “Well, it is a rather large target.”

“Hey!” Romulus did the impossible after one of these episodes—he laughed. “It wouldn’t have been. I was young back then.”

“And you still are.” The Roman’s heart lurched when Min hovered closer to his cheek. He only kissed the flushed skin instead of pinching it like Aranth used to, so Romulus’ shoulders loosened. “Continue.”

“I’m sad to say I didn’t flee with them to see them all to safety.” Pressing their cheeks together, Romulus found Min’s soft and glassy as still water. “But I couldn’t leave the City. I stayed, and Sulla didn’t even declare me a _hostis_ , a public enemy.”

The other man nodded. “That would be against his best interests, after all. We are all the tools of the nobility.”

“Instead— Instead I sat in the Senate as he portrayed himself as a victim.” Again, he wanted nothing more than to dump himself into the rainwater pool just outside their door. “The man who forced me to kill one of my own. And I almost believed him.”

Romulus prided himself on being a good judge of character, but that meant little and less as time went on. Perhaps history itself had lost its meaning long ago. Sulla contributed far more to the end of the Republic in his time as a dictator, even expanding that very same city wall in a show of absolute power, but Marius shared in the blame. Though extending the army to more men had been positive, the democratic act lacked a matching end. The legionaries became loyal to the generals that gave their rewards instead of the ideals of the Republic.

Only the eagles remained.

“Hey, it’s okay. He was, in some ways,” Min said, rubbing Romulus’ back. “But our kind are the greater victims. Mortals are men of half-truths, and we attach ourselves to the ones that keep us alive.”

“Min. What makes you say that?” Romulus turned to look at him. Wisdom lived in Min’s face, of that Romulus had no question, but some universal truth darker than even his hair had tainted his intelligence.

The Chinese man dropped his eyes. “I did not want to make this all about me.”

“It’s not. It’s about us.” After all, were it not for Min, Romulus would still be trapped in the Republic. Enough strength had returned to Romulus to wrap his arms around Min’s thin shoulders, sharp and taut as a bow.

“...I cannot relate to love you bear for Rome, the City. But my existence is not tied to our capital city. If it was, I would be dead a hundred times over.” They had discussed Min’s moving capitals and Romulus’ utter horror at the idea before. “But I understand almost everything else.”

Romulus blinked. That was a novel concept—being understood, even if it came from the other side of the world.

“I wrote to you that our current Han dynasty was uninterrupted, but that was false. If you can ever forgive me,” Min jested, though he did not laugh. “A dynasty never can be. After all, civil war is as sure as the seasons for my people. So, Wang Mang usurped the throne.”

Nodding with every word, Romulus asked, “By force?”

“We cannot all be Roman,” Min huffed. “First, he convinced some people to spout false prophecies about him being the second coming of a famous historical figure. Then, he convinced others to offer him an albino pheasant, a rare sign of divine favor.”

“That’s very specific,” Romulus mumbled, though he was far away in time, picturing Marius’ nest of eagles.

“As we tend to be. So, he poisoned the boy emperor that he had married his daughter to.” Giving a dramatic sigh, Min continued, “Then, he handpicked an infant successor that he could act as regent for. Unsatisfied, he falsified a final prophecy, where the first Han ruler said that Wang should be the emperor forever.”

Romulus blinked through the mental gymnastics. “Well, the Han royal family must’ve hated that trick.”

“Your intelligence knows no bounds.” Min gave a wry smile. “In fact, because I share a lineage name with Wang, the remaining royal family tried to use me against him.”

“Even after you explained that you just picked it?” he asked.

Min nodded. “Mortals cannot understand it. Their very society is built on a family system that I will never be a part of.” Tilting his chin down caused a waterfall of oily black hair to fall forward. “And for shame, because I quite liked spending time with them. They executed me once anyway, and Wang Mang felt nothing.”

Though he had never been one for much comfort—bar holding a dying soldier’s hand—Romulus pressed their noses together. Whatever tragedies Romulus had experienced, Min had on a grander scale. “I’m sorry, Min.”

“It’s okay. It’s all in the past. Though, that is the present, too.” Min sniffed, and Romulus’ brows furrowed. “He trusted no one, so his subordinates had no power and no salaries. There was no place for me at court.”

“Then, where did you go?” As much as the Senate angered him, Romulus would feel lost if he could not set foot in the Forum.

“Oh, I have my places. It wasn’t the first time I’ve run from the government. I helped some agrarian rebels and fought others. Wang angered many with his repugnant reforms.” The rain outside had stopped; instead, Min’s eyes were wet. “I watched his government collapse in on itself from a safe distance—a blessing, compared to some other ends.”

Romulus did not ask. The other haunting parallels between their two stories kept his tongue tied, but the brutal differences bothered him most of all.

“I joined the rebels when they finally sacked the capital, only to find my house and possessions another casualty of the fray,” the Chinese man explained. “Luckily, when the royal family regained power, they moved the capital city fairly soon after. They pretend like none of it ever happened, so I do the same, at least on the surface.”

He wondered if he had even begun to scratch that deceptively calm surface. Romulus hoped so, since he had spilled his guts at Min’s feet tonight. “You shouldn’t have to do that, Min. They hurt you.” And Romulus would hurt them.

“Once, in the grand scheme of things. Even I am not petty enough to hold grudges for thousands of years.” Min smiled sadly. The clouds outside had fled the fury of their emotion, so the moon shone brightly in his round cheeks. “What is there to do about it?”

“Well.” Romulus rubbed their noses back and forth. “There’s me.”

It was so saccharine that Romulus swore that watered wine and honey had materialized in his throat. Though it was no match for Min’s sweet laugh, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous silver. Tears that had not fallen danced from his lashes. Luna herself would be jealous. “Leave the poetry to me. But it seems that I am acting the child this time. There is you, Romulus.”

Wrapping his arms around Romulus, Min propelled the lovers backwards. They landed atop of the blanket as they laughed, now too warm for it, anyway. After some undignified rolling around, their bodies came to agree on a comfortable sleeping position. The Roman curled up into a ball as Min gently cradled Romulus’ head to his chest, as if his wide frame would break. The ends of Min’s inky hair tickled Romulus’ cheeks, but he could not bring himself to mind.

“...Tell me true. Did that help at all?” Min murmured, moon pale face buried in Romulus’ curls.

Romulus blinked. He had almost forgotten that his own nightmare had even started this whole outpouring.

With Aranth, Romulus had never been allowed to grow up, never been treated as a true equal. Though he could never deny the foundation that his brother had laid for him—even the _post moerium_ , beyond the wall, had evolved from Etruscan tradition—Romulus could resent aspects of it.

With Helen, his momentary fit of madness—weakness—had been nothing but a mistake. After letting the bulk of it pass in a wide-eyed silence, she had finally crumpled and given Romulus a look of pity, but the kind that one reserves for a caged animal.

With Min, he felt safe. Perhaps more sacred boundaries had been crossed than just the City’s.

“Yes, it did, _columba_ ,” Romulus finally decided on, simple though it may be. “Thank you for sharing.”

“Then get some rest, _xīngān_. You deserve it.” Min smoothed a thin finger over Romulus’ brow.

Romulus had become increasingly used to their little game of exchanging pet names. Even as Somnus began to take him, he was fairly certain that this one was new. Romulus lifted his chin to bat his camel lashes at Min. “Hey, what’s that mean?”

The Roman summoned all of Min’s possible biting responses, such as Who said it was one? Instead, Min’s fingertip jerked for one imperceptible second.

“I’ll tell you in the morning.”

A yawn bubbled up from him before Romulus could protest, as well as the desire to be wrapped in Min’s hair. He returned to his Chinese guest’s chest and closed his eyes.

In dulcet tones, Min finally finished his lullaby from earlier. Romulus listened intently. Even if he would never knew the words, he felt the true meaning wash over him. When that melody and Min’s consciousness fell to the wayside, Romulus counted the last few rain droplets falling into the pool in the atrium, the vestiges of the storm. Then, all was still.

This time, he did not dream. And after such a deep and peaceful sleep, Romulus forgot to ask.

**Author's Note:**

> columba - dove  
> 心肝 / xīngān - heart and liver (for someone who you can't live without)
> 
> that's it! thank you for reading! comments/kudos are always appreciated :-)


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